


I Don't Wanna Wake Up

by feyreofthewildfire



Series: In Our Bones [2]
Category: A Court of Thorns and Roses Series - Sarah J. Maas
Genre: F/M, companion to wasteland, or this won't make any sense, read wasteland first
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-03
Updated: 2017-10-03
Packaged: 2019-01-08 18:33:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,058
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12259818
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/feyreofthewildfire/pseuds/feyreofthewildfire
Summary: She remembers quietly telling him once of the Cauldron, of her death and rebirth as water drowned her and gave her life again. It’s something she’d never spoken aloud about, not even to herself, much less anyone else.But she finds that he radiates an infuriating amount of trustworthiness, of willingness to listen and do nothing more. Cassian would’ve pushed her, would’ve given her words and words and words and asked for more. Maybe she would’ve felt better in the end, maybe not, but she knows that his aggressive nature isn’t what she needs now, no matter if her heart still yearns for the male across an ocean.-A companion to 'Wasteland' detailing Nesta's relationship with Fionn and the aftermath.





	I Don't Wanna Wake Up

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, so maybe I like this AU a little too much.
> 
> A lovely commenter pointed out how “refreshing and believable” (I quote) it was that Nesta’s healing after ACoWaR wasn’t centered around Cassian. I hadn’t even realized, honestly, that that was the message I was trying to send: Nesta doesn’t need Cassian. Not by a long shot. 
> 
> Oh, and I’m still on the fence about whether Nessian actually gets together in this AU (bc if they don’t in canon I’ll cry). I’ll let you guys decide.
> 
> Enjoy!
> 
> \- Jade

* * *

 

_Just behind the wall_

 

* * *

 

The _clang_ of the metal is the only thing that can focus Nesta’s thoughts.

The sound had quickly become soothing over the past few weeks, it’s rhythmic and echoes through the open air they surround themselves in.

Fionn had decided that the two of them had needed some fresh air and taken her deep into the woods behind the Palais. She’s not sure how they’ll ever get out, but when she asks he only winks in his annoyingly Fae-like way. She blames the small bit of Autumn Court he possesses.

Still, he hadn’t been wrong in his statement. The smell of pine seems to calm her senses, the needles beginning to shed as autumn looms over them. It’s the first time in years that she’s enjoyed the changing of seasons, knowing that it no longer means death is even closer than usual.

She’s barely winded when he stops, sheathing his sword over his back with a grin. “Now that you’re trained this isn’t fun anymore. Your Fae strength gives you an awfully unfair advantage.” Fionn laughs, his chest heaving with the heavy breaths he takes.

Sometimes she forgets how uncaring he is about her new heritage, about the delicate points of her ears and the power that tears through her very being. He’d quietly told her once of his ancestor, a powerful member of the Autumn Court that had run away to the continent to escape the cruelty of Beron’s rule.

Sometimes she forgets about his small affinity for fire until he accidentally lights something while sparring with her. While of great amusement to her, it never fails to alarm him. She’d been training him in what little she knows about magic when they didn’t have an audience of foot soldiers there to gawk at them, but she knew better than to suggest it in a forest of all places.

“I used to be human. Found that I didn’t like it.” She deadpans, though the little smile gracing her features gives her away. She remembers quietly telling him once of the Cauldron, of her death and rebirth as water drowned her and gave her life again. It’s something she’d never spoken aloud about, not even to herself, much less anyone else.

But she finds that he radiates an infuriating amount of trustworthiness, of willingness to listen and do nothing more. Cassian would’ve pushed her, would’ve given her words and words and words and asked for more. Maybe she would’ve felt better in the end, maybe not, but she knows that his aggressive nature isn’t what she needs now, no matter if her heart still yearns for the male across an ocean.

She pushes him out of her mind as Fionn barks out a loud laugh that disturbs the birds above them.  They flutter away as he straightens, a teasing gleam in his eyes. “Well, love, you do seem to have all the advantages now.”

Her eyes nearly roll at the pet name, though she doesn’t comment. She’d long ago accepted his revolving door of names he seems to call her. She’s not sure she’s ever heard her actual name from his mouth. “The looks don’t hurt,” she retorts.

He gestures to the ring of throwing knives around her thigh, “Target practice, princess?” he asks, backing a few steps out of the way as she sheaths her sword at her hip and plucks a knife from the ring at his word. Everything with him is a request, a gentle question that she’s free to turn down. She finds that his way of training is easier, less stress-inducing. He’s training her for, as far as he knows, recreation—a way to pass the time in between her meetings with Vassa’s court and his training of the newly recruited armies.

Nesta doesn’t realize he’s standing right behind her until he speaks again, “Move your feet just a little farther apart—Good. Balance your weight, rotate with your shoulder and release.”  

Her target is only a fifty yards away, and she knows that with her full Fae strength she could make the knife go through the tree. She doesn’t bother to put much into her throw as she does it, the knife barely lodging itself into the bark.

He gives simple, soothing corrections as she empties her six and then his, which are slightly bigger and more weighted. He drills her in the importance of properly weighted knives that way, noting that every knife is made differently—even ones made by Fae.

By the end of the set of twelve, only nine have landed in the tree, the other three lost to the woods. Fionn doesn’t seem to mind, only shrugging her off when she asks if they’re going to look for them. His nonchalance would be annoying if not for how refreshing it is after having dealt with Vassa’s own court of pig-nosed and haughty advisors.

They move onto simple sparring, throwing pulled punches and kicks more for show than anything else. A laugh nearly escapes her when she catches his ankle and tosses it back with a little more force than necessary, causing him to stumble before catching his footing. Were it not for the smile on his face, she wouldn’t have done it anyways. He knows that she’s toying with him, and he enjoys it.

Eventually, she grows bored and pins him to the ground, straddling his chest with an elbow at his throat. Her single braid, having fallen out of its crown around her head, falls over her shoulder, the ends brushing gently against the layer of pine needles on the ground.

“Where’d you learn that move?” He asks, not at all deterred by his position underneath her. Her lips twist up into a smirk, grey eyes glinting with mischief.

She leans down to whisper in his ear, “There are some secrets I’ll never tell.”

In actuality, it’d been one she’d developed herself in the spur of the moment. If he had asked her to recreate it she wouldn’t have been able to. She’s sure that she’s not the creator, that she’d seen it on one of the battlefields and absentmindedly cataloged it, but for now, it’s her little secret.

She pulls herself off on him to tuck her braid into the training clothing she’s wearing—the underclothes of what the cavalrymen wore into battle. The leather pants are similar to the Illyrian ones, from what she knows, but she’s forgone the upper leathers in exchange of a soft, linen shirt. It’s strange not to feel the swish of her skirts, but the range of movement that the pants allow her is refreshing, more so than she thought it would be.

The sound of Fionn rising off the ground behind her makes her turn, flexing her fingers around the gauntlets on her hands she’s yet to grow used to. The overprotective idiot had insisted on it after she’d torn through the skin of her hand while sparring with him, even though it had healed with an hour.

Her eyes flicker up towards the sky, tracking where the sun is. It’s a habit she’d picked up from him from her time in court—telling her whether it was an acceptable time of day to approach an advisor out of the pre-scheduled meetings to sway them to her side.

“Nightfall will be here soon. We should start heading back.” She states, eyes falling from the open air above them to him. He’s wearing a stupidly fond smile on his face, one that she doesn’t recognize. His eyes are soft with some sort of affection she can’t catalog.

It scares her sometimes, the way he looks at her.

He nods his head in response when he notices her attention, running his hands through his hair in an ill-fated attempt to get the pine needles out of it, averting his eyes from hers, “Good eye. I get to be up bright and early tomorrow with the troops. It’ll be interesting.”

“I thought you needed your beauty sleep,” She snarks as they begin to walk. She blindly follows him, trusting him to know where he’s going. It’s a strange realization, recognizing the blind faith she puts in him. Well, perhaps not blind faith, but faith nonetheless.

Fionn winks at her in response, “Some of us age, honey. Gotta preserve our youth while it’s still here.” He laughs at the exasperated sigh that escapes her before continuing. “It was Fohrellis’ idea—show unity by having the high-ranking officials participate in the workouts with the trainees. He, of course, conveniently has an important meeting in town tomorrow morning.”  

He offers a hand over a fallen tree, one that she graciously takes. “Am I allowed to come watch?” She inquires, detaching her hand from his and picking a pine needle from her hair. Nesta doesn’t stop him as he leans over and plucks out another one.

“If you can handle the comments,” He says seriously. “There are enough rumors going around. Might be stoking the flame.”

She scoffs, “Their opinions don’t concern me. I’d rather see you get beat by a bunch of trainees. I’m sure it’ll be highly amusing.”

“You wound me, darling.” He clucks his tongue as if in chastisement. “Truth be told, I haven’t been in the ring with the rest of the boys in a while, but you give me enough scratches.”

Small, meaningless talk passes in the time it takes for them to make their way back to the Palais. Fionn is a new, refreshing presence in her life. He doesn’t define her by the actions, or lack thereof, she’d taken during those years in the hovel—he doesn’t ask questions she _knows_ he wants to ask when she’s not ready to answer them.

He’d only ever heard stories, far-fetched perversions of the true happenings in Prythian. She’s not sure she’ll ever be able to tell anyone about what had happened in that clearing with Cassian and the King, but maybe she doesn’t need to. Maybe she doesn’t need to verbalize her words to accept them.

They sneak around the courtyard to avoid the small gathering that’s in the ballroom, skirting around corners on their way to the armory to store their weapons—well, her weapons. The ones he possesses are bought by himself, often kept in his rooms. Hers are simply borrowed. She’d been debating going into the markets and finding a blacksmith, but she had no use for a weapon. It’d send the wrong message, anyways.

The breath she’d been holding loosens from her chest when he clicks the door to the armory shut behind him. “There’s nothing more I hate than socializing.” She mutters, unbuckling straps and setting the various blades on her body in their correct spots.

“I think you picked the wrong profession.” He retorts from his spot leaning against the wall—one of the few sections that wasn’t covered floor to ceiling in various shields hanging on hooks.

A little, shocked laugh escapes her. “I despise useless chatter. I don’t care about how your daughter is doing, I want to change your opinion. I want to present my case, my reasoning, and walk away.”

“One could argue that spending all this time training with me is useless,” He contradicts. “One could argue that all the two of us do is make useless chatter.”

She blinks as if only realizing this. “I understand. But I enjoy it with you.” She wishes she could take the words back as soon as she says them, eyes closing and jaw clenching as she realizes the implication of her words.

The fact that he doesn’t answer tells her enough. Her admission is something he hadn’t expected—not a biting remark or the sharp snark she usually spits out.

She finds the courage to open her eyes and look at him. He’s wearing a thoughtful expression on his face as if he’s seeing her for the first time. That same affection from before is laced in his gaze, this time with something entirely different accompanying it.

He takes the four steps towards her, coming toe-to-toe. She’s not sure she’s breathing anymore if the look in his eyes is what she thinks it is.

Her eyes shut as he leans down, lips a hair’s width away from hers.

“Tell me to stop.” He mutters, lips brushing hers as he does.

She doesn’t.

* * *

 

_It’s not a dream at all_

 

* * *

 

If it weren’t for the racing of her heart, she would’ve actually knocked.

Nesta bangs open the doors to Fionn’s quarters, chest heaving with the heavy breaths she takes from her sprint.

She almost collapses with relief when she sees he’s still there.

She barely manages to get the door closed before she’s encircled in his arms, forehead pressed against her own. The unnaturally tight grip on her waist tells her what she already knew.

“You have to go, don’t you?” The words are barely a whisper, her hands desperately clutching the collar of the shirt he’s wearing. She knows he has to go, she understands why he has to go. Her heart screams at her, demands that she find a way to get him to stay—a way to keep him away from the battlefield.

He nods, “The west is under my jurisdiction. I have to go.” His voice is strained, lips ghosting across her own as he says the words. “I’m sorry, my love.”

A shaky breath escapes from her, “It’s okay. I understand.” She concedes, backing away a single step to trace the planes of his face with her hands, memorizing the feel. His eyes shut with her ministrations. “When?”

“An hour. It takes anywhere from two days to a week to get out there. I wasn’t even supposed to be here longer than two months.”

Even as he says this he doesn’t move away to continue his packing—in fact, his grip on her only tightens. She detaches from him first, hands lingering, “Let me help you pack.” She mutters, heading over to the table he had abandoned to help him organize his plethora of weapons.

The room is near threadbare, all of his personal effects already packed up and ready to be shipped out to his home in the west. It’s what he’s going to bring with him to the war camp being constructed that has yet to be packed away.

They work in silence together, Nesta having memorized which of the weapons he always kept on his figure and the ones he packed away. It’s busy work to keep her hands from shaking, even as she can feel the muscles quivering. She thinks she can feel her entire self quivering.

She’d known that war was imminent on the continent. She’d just tricked herself into thinking Fionn would be spared from it.

All she can see in front of her is a running replay of the war on Hybern, of the soldiers, slaughtered so effortlessly by magic and steel alike. She’s sure the other queens are as deplorable as the twisted sovereign had been—she’s sure they’re just as resourceful.

She remembers the way she’d screamed Cassian’s name, how he’d been in the center of the death ray that had emitted from the Cauldron until she’d called him away. She remembers the sound of the bones in his wings crunching under Hybern’s boot. She remembers her sister’s screams of horror as she’d sighted their father. She remembers her sister’s screams of grief as she’d laid over her mate’s body.

She never wants to see anyone she cares for anywhere near a battlefield ever again. Never.

She doesn’t realize she’s crying until he reaches over and wipes away a tear. He tugs her towards him and envelops her in his arms once again, pressing his lips into her hair as the tears fall. They’re silent, no sign of them other than the slight quivering of her form.

He doesn’t make her feel pathetic, nor does he question the validity of her tears. She loops her arms around his waist and bunches her hands in the folds of his leathers.

She hadn’t noticed he was wearing full battle leathers. It makes reality so much worse.

When the tears stop he lets her go, brushing the hairs that have stuck to her cheeks away. He unclasps a singular dagger from the ones circling his thigh—one she’s never seen before.  

He gently places the sheathed weapon in her shaking hands. “I’ve had this since I was a boy. I’d like you to keep it safe for me while I’m away.”

The hilt is nothing fancy, simply worn away from repeated use. She can make out the grooves of his hand imprinted into the leather, the way the metal of the guard has lost its shine. It’s a knife well-loved, cherished and kept through many years. It’s a piece of him for her to keep with her while he’s away.

She clears her throat, “Of course. Does it have a name?”

He smiles softly, “Not one that matters.” He carefully lifts her chin to look her in the eye. “When this war is over, whether you’re still here or anywhere else in this world, I will always follow you. I swear that to you, Nesta Archeron.”

“And I’ll wait for you.” The words are out of her mouth before she realizes what she’s saying—before she realizes what she’s implying.

She’s not sure if she loves him, she can’t love him while a piece of her heart still wants the man who’d broken it. She knows that she could, that once that gaping wound has healed nothing would stop her from loving him.

It’s that fact that makes her speak her next words.

“It’s a bargain?”

His eyes flare with surprise, though not fear or horror. It seems he does know what those words mean in Prythian. “It’s a bargain.”

She feels the tattoo brand itself into her skin, a small tingle that weaves itself from her elbow to her wrist. She doesn’t bother to look at it, doesn’t even what wonder what the design is—it doesn’t matter. The design is trivial, what it represents isn’t.

Fionn, however, shakes his hand twice before looking at it. His design is much simpler—a band of black surrounding his left ring finger. He raises an eyebrow, “Subtle, love. You know I’m all yours.”

She chokes out a laugh, “I let the magic do as it pleased.” She defends, taking his hand and tracing the line with her thumb. He caresses her cheek with his other hand, still moist from her tears, and places a sweet, short kiss on her lips. It’s not a goodbye kiss, it’s a see-you-again kiss. It gives her hope. He will come back to her. He has to.

If he dies, she’s not sure how she’ll be able to live with herself.

* * *

 

_It’s a free fall_

 

* * *

The first thing Cassian notices is that she’s wearing mourning black.

Nesta had never been one for colors, anyone could’ve seen that, but her dresses had always been in shades of grey and blue—never black.

The second thing he notices is the shadows under her eyes.

Every other part of her is immaculate—the updo her hair is always in, the fit of her dress. Not a hair nor thread is out of place in typical Nesta fashion, but the shadows in and under her eyes tell him enough. So does the thinness of her body.

He can see her muscles atrophying, the joints of her bones becoming more apparent with each passing day. Her frail fingers barely reach around the book she always has clutched in her hands, and he’s not even sure she can hold the dagger she always has strapped to her waist.

He doesn’t know how to interact with this Nesta—the one riddled with grief instead of anger. The fire in her soul has died, nothing more than a few embers flickering out. Even after the hell she’d been put through—even after the Cauldron and during Elain’s kidnapping, her anger at the world had always overridden the worry, the fear and terror.

He’d tried the same method the first time he’d seen her—provoking her until she spoke, until she insulted and berated him and got whatever it was she needed to get out of her system. Instead, she had broken into near hysterics, shouting at him not with insults but with questions that he knew she wasn’t truly asking.

Nesta was lost, and he didn’t know how to find her this time.

Maybe he had never known how to find her.

All he can do is check on her in the library every once in awhile if only to ask her if she’d like something to eat or drink. She always says no, but a response is better than none at all. He’s the one that carries her to her room every night when she inevitably falls asleep in what’s become her armchair, noting the way she grows lighter in his arms every time. He’s the one that carefully marks her place in her book and sets it on her nightstand. He’s the one that makes sure she isn’t disturbed during her time of mourning.

It’s all he can do. He can’t help her with something he truly doesn’t understand. He won’t try like Elain, who knocks on the door of the private library and begs her sister every day to come outside of her safe haven. The happiness that Elain had developed within herself in the past three months had quickly diminished when her eldest sister had arrived home a shell of a person—not a shell of herself, but a shell of a person.  

The door creaks open as he pushes it, spotting Nesta once again in her armchair, dressed in black. The only difference is that there’s no book in her hand. She’s only staring at the sunset.

“Hey sweetheart,” He starts. “Do you want anything?” It’s the same question every day, the same repetition. The words are soft, as not to disturb her peace.

She doesn’t answer for a long moment. “You know, he was a lot like you.”

Cassian has to resist the urge to drop his jaw.

“He always had these stupid pet names. Darling, princess, my love. He never called me sweetheart, though.” A little scoff escapes her, “How ironic.”

She curls her knees up towards her chest, wrapping her arms around them. “He asked me to hold to that dagger for him.” Cassian notices the sheathed knife, not around her waist for the first time. It’s laying atop a closed book on the small table next to her. He curls his fingers to keep himself from picking it up. “Said that no matter where in this godforsaken world I went, he’d follow me. It was an empty promise, given his position, but he meant it anyway.

“Sometimes I have dreams about him surviving the massacre, about him finding me.” She pushes up the right sleeve, revealing bare skin. He’s not sure what she’s trying to say.

“Then I remember that the tattoo is gone and that I’m still here.”

_Oh._

“You made a bargain?” He asks, unable to keep the question from slipping out.

She barrels on, “His was a band around his left ring finger. _Till death do us part_ , right?” A pained noise slips from her. “I suppose I was the last person he ever loved.

“I didn’t love him like I should’ve,” She confesses. “I was too hung up on you.”

He’s sure that his heart stutters in its beating when his breath catches in his throat. He takes a few more steps towards her, circling the chair to look at her properly.

Her eyes flicker up to him, the utter weariness and exhaustion in them making him tired. “I’m sorry,” He whispers, unable to truly push out the words.

She reaches out and takes one of his hands in hers, her bony fingers completely engulfed in his large ones. “Thank you for checking on me every day.”

He reaches across with the hand not in hers, brushing away the hairs that have fallen out of the half-up-half-down style her hair is in and cupping her cheek. She leans just the slightest bit into his palm as he speaks, “Of course.”

**Author's Note:**

> come scream at me on tumblr @feyreofthewildfire  
> kudos and comments keep me writing! be warned, I tend to word vomit in my replies.  
> all the headings in this story are from the song 'wasteland' by against the current.  
> have a lovely, lovely day!


End file.
